


Whiplash

by scriggly



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bearding, J2, M/M, POV Jensen Ackles, POV Second Person, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:31:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriggly/pseuds/scriggly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long can you keep walking this tightrope, high up in the freezing mute pitch-black dark, far, far above the glitter that frames you and your beautiful boy in the salivating crowd's eyes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiplash

**Author's Note:**

> Starts right before the epic JiB hug. Ends shortly after Jensen walks offstage at Jailbreak.
> 
> No plot. A ton of angst. Fleeting smut. An imagined look at the constant emotional upheaval inside Jensen.
> 
> Please read the warnings carefully.
> 
> WARNINGS: Real-life children.  
> Fleeting mention of superfecundation.  
> Genevieve-heavy & Genevieve-positive.

_Fuck it._

Fuck it, you think, as he trails off and smiles soft and uncertain after talking himself into an emotional corner.

As if his brutal, relentless fight can be neatly tied up with a "bad misfortunes" bow.

Fuck it, you think, pride hot in your chest as you pull open your shirt and let his words say it better than anything you could ever hope to say.

His beautiful eyes are desperately fixed on the farthest, blurriest point in the crowd, visibly choking up and obviously thinking that you're going to settle for a buddy-buddy pat on the chest this time.

Oh no. Not this time.

Not with him right here next to you, safe and well and _here,_ really and truly _here._

This is not going to be a casual moment, and the only warning you give him is your palm cradling that elegant jaw while your other palm curls around his slender neck before you stand on your tiptoes and pull your boy into your arms.

He's here ( _here right here not shattered alone on another continent no he's here right here_ ) and your hand rests for a beat on his brave, precious head, a respite from the nonstop snarl of _want love don't blow the secret mine careful don't blow the charade what the hell is this mine he's mine_ always roiling inside you, always preceding the black rage that crashes in hot and loud right after.

And he can effortlessly calm it all.

He curls into your embrace and your heart soars. Savage, giddy tenderness gathers in your guts as his nose burrows into your shoulder and he trembles safe in your arms.

Astounding, how he paints your entire world into vivid life with one effortless stroke.

He's here. This time he's here, so you're not carrying around a visceral gaping hole carved into your gut, and this stage is no longer the pounding, gaping hole it was last year, when heartache overcame you in his absence and you sang to him, _of_ him, unseeing eyes hot with unshed tears, reeling while the world had the gall to go on around you.

Astounding.

The very air that was smothering and ashen and soaking heavy with your fears last year now shimmers with color and fragrances and sounds by people no longer a gray faceless blob, their delighted laughter no longer baffling now that your blood is singing with him here, _here,_ really and truly here.

It's all you can do not to let your eyes flutter shut, not to let yourself nuzzle the nape of his neck and hold him like the love of your life for all to see. It's all you can do, but you keep your eyes open because as hard as you're trying to keep the lover out of the hug, you know you've not only skidded past the forbidden lines of the charade but dragged him along to boot.

He slips like a precious wish out of your arms, his hand caressing yours but his head bowed, and the grief that morphs into burning fury you can taste is vicious and barbed and far, far too familiar.

He's here with you, whole and well and so choked up he couldn't even meet your gaze, and yet he has to forego his rightful solace in your arms and brush past you to keep up this cursed, _cursed_ act.

Your greed astounds you.

Apparently the "grownup" compromise switch in your brain snapped off last year, because you just cannot let them play their part anymore. The laugh they share for a few lousy seconds is too much, and you lose it when you see their hands on each other.

You try your _damndest_ to remind yourself she's helping him, helping _you_ salvage whatever can be salvaged after _your_ possessive display.

You try, and you fail, and you throw a desperate dig at the mother of your boys.

People get wiser with age, and you're only getting more reckless, pulled nonstop in opposite directions at once, grinding your teeth when her face lights up at your boy, angry at yourself in the same breath for losing your temper when you _know_ it's an act even as you wonder in the same fucking breath if it _is_ an act.

Begrudging apologies. Angry solace. Stricken rage. All of it crowding on your tongue, slithering back to clog your throat until you're gagging on it, unable to catch your breath or see straight.

Every day. Every single day.

You're so tired.

You have nothing more to say now. Not to her, not to anyone – except perhaps to offer popcorn and refreshments to everyone watching you dangling and yanked up and down and back and forth on the yo-yo your life has become.

Tired. You're so, so tired.

***

You all pay for it, of course.

He's not here in your arms, in your hotel room. You're not out and about with him just the two of you walking the same cobblestone streets that saw you crushed in heartbreak one year ago. You're not stopping for pictures with fans and marveling at the pink that smudges his cheeks when he catches you sneaking glances at a flower cart, because he knows you're wishing you could tuck a real, fragrant flower behind his ear while the late afternoon summer sun melts into golden threads in his hair.

You didn't stick to your script, so you don't get to celebrate, inasmuch as the circus show allows you to celebrate.

You're here, alone, wondering if you're having an out-of-body experience.

Because you're watching yourself alone in your hotel room, pacing the carpet and opening and closing the connecting door to her ("their") room and waiting for them to finish making the rounds.

You're watching yourself, when you stop to examine the face in the mirror. He looks furious.

God. What _is_ this?

Summoned and ordered and threatened, treated in the same breath like ungrateful divas and future has-beens whose entire livelihoods (you're _never_ allowed to forget) hang on a flimsy thread.

If you stray one inch off the line.

How long can you keep walking this tightrope, high up in the freezing mute pitch-black dark, far, far above the glitter that frames you and your beautiful boy in the salivating crowd's eyes?

In your mind's eye, you watch the two of you walking parallel tightropes. They never intersect and they never end, not while the tent is up and the show is on and the ringmaster is egging on the crowd's whoops and cracking his whip.

How long?

Because the older you get, the clumsier you walk your rope. And the clumsier you walk your rope, the more heavy handed the reminders get: Stray one inch and your downfall is guaranteed, solid and stamped and waiting in the ringmaster's desk drawer, real accommodations already made and ready for your mysterious out-of-work future, your name another silent warning in a long line of names that defied this fickle, filthy world and its rules.

_Is that so bad?_

No.

 _Yes._ This is what you've both worked for. It's what you're both good at. It's what you both love.

_But is it?_

No. Yes. Yes?

Maybe. And you'll both lose it. If you forget to be grateful.

If you forget to keep pretending the beautiful boy who is the light of your life is someone else's.

Keep weathering the whiplash until it cracks your neck and, by proxy, his and hers and hers and you can't even let your brain go near your three precious kids down the line.

Don't forget. Keep walking the tightrope like the good boy you are and you get a few stolen crumbs of time off the rope and away from the circus show, when you can make up for all the times this life denied you, all the times you were robbed of offering solace and being there and screaming your love and your joy and your pride at the top of your lungs. Oh, _and_ you get to keep this dream life, dream career, dream existence.

Don't, _don't_ ask yourself when this was ever your dream.

Don't think of your sure, meticulous plan to make it this far and no farther, no tabloid headlines or alter egos that swallow your reality or A-list bodyguards needed to walk you to your local grocery store whenever you need more lettuce to force a salad on your boy.

You've stuck to your plan. It still didn't work out.

(Oh, but you were so naïve. So unforgivably naïve.)

Don't ( _don't)_ think of all the demons he staggers under, trying not to trip as he walks his rope, and-

The faintest murmur of his voice sounds in the hall, and just like that the loud chaos gnawing on your brain ebbs and coils in the background and you're on your feet and through the connecting door even before the snick of the keycard.

A bruising kiss to his mouth steals whatever he was about to say to you as you grab him, your hands skittering everywhere, sliding up to his neck and into his hair, brushing him clean of all the greedy touches the world (she _)_ got in tonight while you weren't there to see.

(Be grateful. This is your craft. Your shared success and blood and tears.)

He melts under your touch just as eagerly, like you're still his haven. Like you didn't cost him (and yourself) _again_ hours you could've spent together.

But there's no blame in your angel's touch. Nothing but utter, palpable relief to be back in your arms, his graceful fingers curled in your shirt in sweet, sweet possessiveness that melts you into mush.

(You are incredibly lucky. Be grateful.)

All you’ve wanted, all he's needed was a quiet chance to remove the scar last year clawed into both your hearts. You've done nothing but sell the act religiously for two days just for that chance. So little to ask for, and you didn't even get that.

(Be grateful.)

It all burns and bleeds crimson hot in your brain, stings behind your closed eyelids as you pull him closer, your body sharply awake in hunger, your mind rage-flogged.

So, so tired. Pulled in a million opposite directions and so very tired.

Give up. Don't give up. None of this makes any sense. It makes all the sense in the world.

Your two sunny haired toddlers and your tiny perfect replica of _him_ are all waiting for you back home _,_ so it must make sense. It must.

Because if it doesn't… then how much has slipped right through your fingers?

"Take it to your room," comes her voice. Low. Tired. Circus-weary.

The hamster wheel of your life keeps spinning, and it's déjà vu as you begrudgingly let go of him, tear your eyes from the love in those beautiful eyes before you turn to her. To soothe what you know will only happen again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

He tangles your fingers, his thumb brushing yours, dipping into the soft skin at its base, dizzying, steadying as you open your mouth.

She puts up a pleading hand, face drained and hair messily pulled back, a creature of habit in the same lounge pants, still unwashed and carrying the strawberry trail your little girl gleefully "painted" on with her tiny, chubby fingers as she climbed up her second mother's leg to settle in her lap, two heads whispering together, golden pigtails spilling against a dark ponytail.

She misses them. You know she misses the three tiny humans who clamber on top of her and the pure love in their big hearts, love freely given and free of judgment or hate or vitriol, no speculation-turned-verdict about the angle of her smile or the meaning of her laugh or the timber of her voice.

No need for her to be anyone but herself.

Tired. You're all so tired.

It seems dreary and bleak and inhumanly long, a lifetime measured in days after days of keeping _this_ up.

"I'm sorry," you say to the mother of your boys, not the enemy you can't turn your back on.

Her eyes hold no malice. And no warmth. "Can we do this tomorrow? I'm knackered. We all are," she adds quietly, her eyes softening on your beautiful boy, and your hackles rise, the same half-congealed poison churning again in your mind.

You glance at him too, your kneejerk reaction whenever anyone looks at him too long. He smiles at her (stunning; even exhausted he is _stunning_ ) before he seeks out your gaze, his eyes lighting up.

For you. Only you.

She's obviously caught your jealous moment, however, and she's gaping at you incredulously. Déjà vu. "You know what…" She trails off, throws her hands in the air and climbs into her bed, clicking off the lights. "Whatever. See you tomorrow."

Tired. You're so, so tired.

"Night," your angel says to her, leans down to whisper to you, "Don't take too long." You blindly find the warm lips brushing your ear and you fit your mouth to his, sloppy and greedy and wet, just one more almost-hushed kiss.

He disappears into your room and pulls the door shut. You cross the small space to her bed.

When you place your palm in silent apology on the top of her head (so small, like a child's, this slip of a girl who promised to help, who gave you your two precious boys, who you cannot trust or hate or forgive), she doesn't shake your hand off.

At least there's that.

***

In a haze you pad over to him, push him to sit down on the bed. You're standing in the wide vee of his legs and you can't find your voice.

His precious, tousled head is bowed again.

He fingers the hem of the T-shirt you still have on, traces his own words on your chest. Your fingers claw into his soft, soft locks and pull, lifting his head.

Your angel's eyes are bright. Too bright. Suspiciously bright.

All you did was wear this T-shirt.

He ploughs steadfast in a maze of demons every day, and his beautiful eyes are bright because _you_ started the celebration early and wore his T-shirt.

You wish you could tell him you'd wear his name carved into your skin every day if you could, but you still can't make words happen and your legs are buckling, so you can't help him get your clothes out of the way. You can only fall on his mouth, put your hands on his skin in unabashed, desperate need, and catch him when he falls right back.

***

He falls asleep in the tangle of your arms and legs, safe from his demons and the circus show and the crush of your fury at the charade and its consequences and everything that makes less and less sense every day, the entire claustrophobic world at bay.

Soft, precious skin against your nose, sweet and slippery and sticky with his sweat and your sweat and his pleasure and your pleasure. Even asleep, he steadies your heart and calms down the ever-spiraling rage and confused regrets in your blood.

And you're the one _without_ demons to fight.

How does he handle this? Why should he? Why should any of you?

You're so tired. So you wrap yourself tighter around him, tuck him closer, and wait for his warmth to lull you under.

***

He doesn't stir in the morning as you climb out of bed.

Her reply to your text is prompt and you pull on clothes soundlessly, then stand and drink in the sight of him, beautiful face untroubled in sleep, silken hair splashed on the pillow.

You pull the connecting door gently (jealously) shut behind you and join her at the tiny dining nook tucked into her room. The coffee she has poured for you is still hot.

Déjà vu. Another hushed non-fight.

A sigh escapes you. "So-"

"Do you know how many texts I got last night, Jensen?" Her words are quiet but still shatter the refuge behind your coffee. "From family alone? My brother's in-laws? It's cute how everyone suddenly remembers they're so happy for me. So many people _had_ to remind me how lucky we are to have a true friend like Jensen, and how hilarious Jensen is. I could _hear_ them fucking drooling to ask me if my sham marriage really is a sham marriage or-"

"I'm sorry."

"You know what's going to happen, right? If you keep doing this?"

Yes. No.

There's an infuriating buzzing in your head. Another headline, another coming out story you read yesterday. A 20-year old, this time. Random phrases and sentences taunt you. How he hated putting his ex-girlfriend through it but couldn't live a lie anymore and, best of all, most _hilarious_ of all, how he would never stop regretting all the years of his life he wasted in secrecy and guilt.

Part of you wonders: Years? What years?

He's 20. He doesn't have kids. He doesn't have a career he cannot change now because it's the only thing he knows how to do.

He wasn't about to go out of his mind while the love of his life was broken down and alone on another fucking continent.

"Jensen."

You don't know what's on your face when your eyes snap up to hers, but you've startled her.

"Are you… Is everything okay? Jared? Is he okay?"

"Look, I'm sorry." You are. You just don't sound it. You sound petulant, because you're genuinely sorry and you're genuinely sick of all this. And you'd really rather she didn't say his name. Maybe if you rub your face like you're trying to claw it off this dull pounding will stop.

"Listen to me. Jensen? Can you listen to me? We really don't need another stupid happy family spread. Jared doesn't handle the fake crap well-"

"I know what Jared-"

"-and I swear I'm going to kill the next relative who calls me to tell me how cute," she bites out, raising both hands in air quotes, "my husband and I-"

"He's not your husband."

She gapes at you. "I _know_ that. For fuck's sake, Jensen, I'm not after Jared-"

 _Right._ You don't say it. You even manage to hold back the bitter snort, but she still looks murderous.

"You still think I… I can't believe you still even think… Do you seriously _still_ -"

"I don't still anything."

But you do.

Because you don't believe her. And you don't believe her because you can't.

How can anyone in her shoes not fall for him?

How can she have his beautiful eyes turned on her in pretend affection and his hands cradling her against him and not be dazzled senseless by it? How can she have his pink lips pressed against hers – _damn,_ damn it all to _hell_ – and not wonder what his mouth tastes like?

You can't unclench your jaw.

(You couldn't unclench it four years ago either, that night, when you two sat down before her clinic appointment just like you're sitting now, when you asked her if she understood there was a tiny chance she might end up carrying pieces of you and him _both_ inside her, the twins your beautiful boy fervently wanted you to make together with her help, and you waited for her to rail and yell and call the whole thing off, but all she did was nod, calm and accepting and almost happy to help, and you were stunned and jealous and relieved and _livid,_ because how dare she accept that; how _dare_ she tell you she'd even researched the term because she knew it was the only way you were prepared to let this happen?)

Your jaw hurts.

How can she get to have his _seed_ hold onto her very cells and mesh with them and unfurl inside her, how can she bring your two precious boys into the world and watch them grow into tiny amazing different copies of him and not wonder what it would be like to actually-

_No._

Thick, hot anger carves out your insides.

How can she keep tasting all of that and not forget about honoring any agreements, forget about anything and everything and swear to herself she will win his heart if it's the last thing she does?

Impossible.

 _You're only human._ You don't say it, but it's as good as stamped on your forehead _._

"Oh my God." Her voice is flat, her hands creeping up to fist in her hair. "Not again. I can't do this again. What do you want, Jensen? If you'd _still_ rather believe I'm secretly in love with Jared-"

"Don't-"

"Look in the mirror right now, _right_ now," she hisses, grabbing your arm amidst the red in your vision and pulling you up. "Look. At. Your. Face."

She's right.

The man staring back at you, chest heaving and nostrils flared and eyes unhinged, broken and found out and drowning… Who is he? Why does he look like he's grieving?

"Jensen. What. Do. You. Want?"

You sit back down heavily, dumbfounded.

Tired. So, so tired.

She sighs, nothing but sympathy in her eyes now. Her life is a yo-yo too, after all. She probably knows what it's like. You're grateful that she knows what it's like. You're _furious_ that she knows what it's like.

"I don't know why I'm even…" She trails off. Gentle, as if not to spook you. "If you… Look. This is way harder than I could have ever thought. God knows nobody prepares you for it. You’d think someone would have had the decency to make a manual or something. So if. If you can't do this anymore-"

A bitter laugh escapes you. As if she's brought up something new. As if it's not something you've thought about over and over and over, watching your boy stop protesting, heft the weight, walk the line. "What? If I can't do it anymore, what? I don't have to?"

"It's not like it's the end of the world. It's not like we'll starve."

"No, we won't starve. Not for the next few years. And then what?"

"I don't know then what. I just know I'm sick of you getting us all punished like we're five every time you can't handle me doing exactly what you said I needed to do. You said that. _You_ said it was the best of both worlds."

"If you still seriously think it's that simple-"

"I didn't say a word about simple. God. Why do I even…" She glances towards your room. "How does Jared feel about this?"

"Why?"

Her face closes up, and you're yanked from immediately angry to immediately contrite yet _again._

Again and again and again. You clear your throat. "I'm not actively trying to be a jerk, believe it or not."

"Oh, you don't need to. You're a fucking natural."

"I mean I can't help it. I'm sorry. It's not an excuse, but I can't help it."

You can't help it _anymore,_ more like.

Because you're 38, and there's real gray in your hair, and a 20-year-old kid is crying about the years _he_ wasted.

How many more years are going to slip through your fingers until you're free to…

What?

Pull him mid-conversation to press a kiss on his nose, just because you can? Just because?

Grab him while you're out for ice cream to lick it out of his mouth just to taste him, then do it again, just because those lips look too damn illegal all red and shiny with your spit?

Wear his ring, put your ring on his finger, once and for all?

Say _my husband_ over and over and over, show it off and stop smothering it with _brother_ and _friend_ and _best friend_ even though he is all of that, twirl it in your mouth during interviews and sing it on stage and tweet it like that Dr Who writer, _shopping with my husband out to dinner with my husband did you see how my husband knocked it out of the park last episode_?

That's the bottom line, and you're not about to confess this to her: How much longer?

Until one of you isn't around anymore?

You can't handle that thought, and you drag yourself out of your head and look up. The terrible, sad sympathy on her face means she's pieced it together. She looks away, maybe solely for your benefit. Probably not.

This isn't you. Either of you. You're not going to hold hands or hug. This wary, uneasy coexistence has always eclipsed everything else, and it doesn't matter that she can relate. Nothing will turn this into something as black and white as friendship or enmity.

Shared parenthood hasn't changed this. Neither has sharing the same avalanche of devastating love you had no idea those kids would burst open in your very guts.

You sigh. "Anyway. Like I said. I'm sorry. It's not an excuse."

"No, it's not." She sighs. You've filled the room with sighs between the both of you and the day's just starting. "I'm sorry too. But if nothing's going to change then you can't keep getting mad at me for, I don't know, breathing the same air as Jared. I don't have a fucking script, Jensen. I'm trying. Last year, you said leave his hair alone? I left it alone. I can't read your mind or..."

The door opens, and she trails off.

His head appears in the doorway, tousled and sleep-mussed and unbearably beautiful in a rumpled t-shirt and pants.

It's obscenely intimate, too intimate for anyone to see. He probably still smells of you. He's not even trying to step into the room; your pleasure (your claim, your mark) is probably leaking down the inside of his thigh right this minute-

You're already getting up, anxious to put a locked door between this vision and the rest of the world.

He smiles at you. At her. Nods at you both. "Good talk?"

He's shaking his bangs out of his eyes and that's the T-shirt _you_ had on last night and your knees are weak. You barely register her rolling her eyes.

"Good talk," you murmur, striding towards him.

It's as good a non-truce as you're all going to get now, so you don't push it.

There's time enough for that later.

Now you're going to lock the door and get all that sleep-slack softness out of those clothes and underneath you again, and smother him in your love while you can.

Behind your locked door, he melts into your kiss, and you can almost taste it in the sweetness of his spit, his shaky exhale against your lips: A milestone, just around the corner.

You can almost _see_ it.

***

It's fitting that your first song is about being stoned on love.

Stoned on his love.

Yes, you are. Stoned and drunk and gone on him, as the music carries you and soars.

He's glowing, well-rested and well-loved and whole, after a few hours in your arms away from the tightrope.

And he won't let you out of his sight.

It’s like he's steadfastly ignoring the act. He won't even turn to her when she talks, his beautiful eyes riveted on you and only you, your reckless ( _helpless_ ) eyes cutting across to him as soon as you've managed to wrench them away, all your senses tugging you in his direction anyway.

And he still won't let you out of his sight. Even she seems to have guessed he's completely given up on selling the act while you're serenading him.

Your heart swells.

You fly from song to song. Sad lyrics of longing and heartbreak float over you but cannot touch you. Nothing can touch you with him sitting there, eyes glittering with pride and promise and pure worship (still there, still, after all these years).

It's not even the first gift of rebellion your beautiful boy has surprised you with lately. Two months ago you were on another stage and you were just as bewildered and dizzy and beside yourself with joy, when he oh-so-casually slipped _my partner_ amidst his ramble to the crowd. _My partner,_ gift-wrapped and heady and utterly out of the blue.

You picture what his face will look like later tonight, when you tell him you want to plan for the milestone you know is around the corner, and wild hope unfurls and _sings_ in your blood _._

His eyes are still on you. And for the remainder of the time you spend on stage, he doesn't let you out of his sight.

***

Amidst the deafening applause and the interminable stops you're forced to make on the way from the stage to him, his eyes stay on you, his lovely face lit up, eager longing rippling around him with every delay.

And it's like he can guess what you’ve been thinking of all day.

Because he gives in to his impatience and lays a brazen hand on yours. His hand flutters away for a few beats, uncertain, before his slender fingers touch a trail of fire inside your wrist. Your ears roar and your heart hammers, awash in stunned joy.

This is far more than _my partner._ Your beautiful boy must know it's not dark enough to hide the finger lingering on your skin. He must know.

You drink in the glow on his beautiful face, and you imagine him lighting up even brighter tonight.

Somehow your mouth steadily babbles away throughout the visions playing out in your head, until he turns away to answer something she said, and the possessiveness that rips through you clobbers the last of your doubts: _Yes._ It's time to change the status quo.

His precious head whips back to you even _before_ you lean in, so exquisitely aware of you all the time, so eager at the mere promise of your touch. Your hand on his knee is careful but sure and proprietary as you ask about your drink. You'd dislodge your host's presumptuous hand from your boy's thigh if you could, but you keep your poker face and lose yourself instead in his eyes, hungry and happy and welcoming the possessive curl of your fingers.

Yes. It's time.

Because he stands up to his full delicious height, loath to let you brush past him just yet, and you find your side almost pressed into the same taut belly your nose was buried in this morning. He seeks out a toast and your glasses clink.

His scent. It makes your head spin.

If you turn an inch, one inch, your leg will slide right between his thighs. Just one inch is all you need, and you could grab him down and devour that mouth and burn the vile charade right out of existence.

But you marshal your patience. You still have no idea how you're going to change the status quo, but with his neck on the line – all your necks – you know there's no room for recklessness.

Slow but sure, you decide.

His scent grazes your senses again, and the thick, sweet want jolting through you nearly brings you to your knees. You carefully keep your gaze straight ahead.

You don't need to lock gazes to see the secret promise that weaves between you, glittering and strong and visible to no one else. So you pull your limbs together and force yourself to walk on ahead. Just a little while longer.

Slow but sure.

Tonight, after you make him smell of you again and your senses are soaked of him, you'll ask him – you'll _tell_ him. He was right all those years ago, you're going to confess.

It's time, you're going to whisper into his mouth.

Slow but sure. You can see that milestone now, bright and clear as the sun.

Yes. It's time.

***


End file.
